CHAPTER LXI.
"IT'S DOGGED AS DOES IT."
In accordance with the resolution to which the clerical commissionhad come on the first day of their sitting, Dr. Tempest wrote thefollowing letter to Mr. Crawley:--
Rectory, Silverbridge, April 9, 186--.
DEAR SIR,--
I have been given to understand that you have been informed that the Bishop of Barchester has appointed a commission of clergymen of the diocese to make inquiry respecting certain accusations which, to the great regret of us all, have been made against you, in respect to a cheque for twenty pounds which was passed by you to a tradesman in this town. The clergymen appointed to form this commission are Mr. Oriel, the rector of Greshamsbury, Mr. Robarts, the vicar of Framley, Mr. Quiverful, the warden of Hiram's Hospital at Barchester, Mr. Thumble, a clergyman established in that city, and myself. We held our first meeting on last Monday, and I now write to you in compliance with a resolution to which we then came. Before taking any other steps we thought it best to ask you to attend us here on next Monday, at two o'clock, and I beg that you will accept this letter as an invitation to that effect.
We are, of course, aware that you are about to stand your trial at the next assizes for the offence in question. I beg you to understand that I do not express any opinion as to your guilt. But I think it right to point out to you that in the event of a jury finding an adverse verdict, the bishop might be placed in great difficulty unless he were fortified with the opinion of a commission formed from your fellow clerical labourers in the diocese. Should such adverse verdict unfortunately be given, the bishop would hardly be justified in allowing a clergyman placed as you then would be placed, to return to his cure after the expiration of such punishment as the judge might award, without a further decision from an ecclesiastical court. This decision he could only obtain by proceeding against you under the Act in reference to clerical offences, which empowers him as bishop of the diocese to bring you before the Court of Arches,--unless you would think well to submit yourself entirely to his judgment. You will, I think, understand what I mean. The judge at assizes might find it his duty to imprison a clergyman for a month,--regarding that clergyman simply as he would regard any other person found guilty by a jury and thus made subject to his judgment,--and might do this for an offence which the ecclesiastical judge would find himself obliged to visit with the severer sentence of prolonged suspension, or even with deprivation.
We are, however, clearly of opinion that should the jury find themselves able to acquit you, no further action whatsoever should be taken. In such case we think that the bishop may regard your innocence to be fully established, and in such case we shall recommend his lordship to look upon the matter as altogether at an end. I can assure you that in such case I shall so regard it myself.
You will perceive that, as a consequence of this resolution, to which we have already come, we are not minded to make any inquiries ourselves into the circumstances of your alleged guilt, till the verdict of the jury shall be given. If you are acquitted, our course will be clear. But should you be convicted, we must in that case advise the bishop to take the proceedings to which I have alluded, or to abstain from taking them. We wish to ask you whether, now that our opinion has been conveyed to you, you will be willing to submit to the bishop's decision, in the event of an adverse verdict being given by the jury; and we think that it will be better for us all that you should meet us here at the hour I have named on Monday next, the 15th instant. It is not our intention to make any report to the bishop until the trial shall be over.
I have the honour to be, My dear sir, Your very obedient servant,
MORTIMER TEMPEST.
The Rev. Josiah Crawley, Hogglestock.
In the same envelope Dr. Tempest sent a short private note, in whichhe said that he should be very happy to see Mr. Crawley at half-pastone on the Monday named, that luncheon would be ready at that hour,and that, as Mr. Crawley's attendance was required on public grounds,he would take care that a carriage was provided for the day.
Mr. Crawley received this letter in his wife's presence, and readit in silence. Mrs. Crawley saw that he paid close attention to it,and was sure,--she felt that she was sure,--that it referred in someway to the terrible subject of the cheque for twenty pounds. Indeed,everything that came into the house, almost every word spoken there,and every thought that came into the breasts of any of the family,had more or less reference to the coming trial. How could it beotherwise? There was ruin coming on them all,--ruin and completedisgrace coming on father, mother, and children! To have been accuseditself was very bad; but now it seemed to be the opinion of every onethat the verdict must be against the man. Mrs. Crawley herself, whowas perfectly sure of her husband's innocence before God, believedthat the jury would find him guilty,--and believed also that he hadbecome possessed of the money in some manner that would have beendishonest, had he not been so different from other people as to beentitled to be considered innocent where another man would have beenplainly guilty. She was full of the cheque for twenty pounds, and ofits results. When, therefore, he had read the letter through a secondtime, and even then had spoken no word about it, of course she couldnot refrain from questioning him. "My love," she said, "what is theletter?"
"It is on business," he answered.
She was silent for a moment before she spoke again. "May I not knowthe business?"
"No," said he; "not at present."
"Is it from the bishop?"
"Have I not answered you? Have I not given you to understand that,for a while at least, I would prefer to keep the contents ofthis epistle to myself?" Then he looked at her very sternly, andafterwards turned his eyes upon the fireplace and gazed at the fire,as though he were striving to read there something of his futurefate. She did not much regard the severity of his speech. That, too,like the taking of the cheque itself, was to be forgiven him, becausehe was different from other men. His black mood had come upon him,and everything was to be forgiven him now. He was as a child whencutting his teeth. Let the poor wayward sufferer be ever so petulant,the mother simply pities and loves him, and is never angry. "I begyour pardon, Josiah," she said, "but I thought it would comfort youto speak to me about it."
"It will not comfort me," he said. "Nothing comforts me. Nothing cancomfort me. Jane, give me my hat and my stick." His daughter broughtto him his hat and stick, and without another word he went out andleft them.
As a matter of course he turned his steps towards Hoggle End. When hedesired to be long absent from the house, he always went among thebrickmakers. His wife, as she stood at the window and watched thedirection in which he went, knew that he might be away for hours. Theonly friends out of his own family with whom he ever spoke freelywere some of these rough parishioners. But he was not thinking of thebrickmakers when he started. He was simply desirous of again readingDr. Tempest's letter, and of considering it, in some spot whereno eye could see him. He walked away with long steps, regardingnothing,--neither the ruts in the dirty lane, nor the young primroseswhich were fast showing themselves on the banks, nor the gatheringclouds which might have told him of the coming rain. He went on fora couple of miles, till he had nearly reached the outskirts of thecolony of Hoggle End, and then he sat himself down upon a gate. Hehad not been there a minute before a few slow large drops began tofall, but he was altogether too much wrapped up in his thoughts toregard the rain. What answer should he make to this letter from theman at Silverbridge?
The position of his own mind in reference to his own guilt or hisown innocence was very singular. It was simply the truth that he didnot know how the cheque had come to him. He did know that he hadblundered about it most egregiously, especially when he had averredthat this cheque for twenty pounds had been identical with a chequefor another sum which had been given to him by Mr. Soames. He hadblundered since, in saying
that the dean had given it to him. Therecould be no doubt as to this, for the dean had denied that he haddone so. And he had come to think it very possible that he had indeedpicked the cheque up, and had afterwards used it, having depositedit by some strange accident,--not knowing then what he was doing, orwhat was the nature of the bit of paper in his hand,--with the noteswhich he had accepted from the dean with so much reluctance, withsuch an agony of spirit. In all these thoughts of his own about hisown doings, and his own position, he almost admitted to himself hisown insanity, his inability to manage his own affairs with thatdegree of rational sequence which is taken for granted as belongingto a man when he is made subject to criminal laws. As he puzzledhis brain in his efforts to create a memory as to the cheque, andsucceeded in bringing to his mind a recollection that he had onceknown something about the cheque,--that the cheque had at one timebeen the subject of a thought and of a resolution,--he admitted tohimself that in accordance with all law and all reason he must beregarded as a thief. He had taken and used and spent that which heought to have known was not his own;--which he would have knownnot to be his own but for some terrible incapacity with which Godhad afflicted him. What then must be the result? His mind wasclear enough about this. If the jury could see everything and knoweverything,--as he would wish that they should do; and if thisbishop's commission, and the bishop himself, and the Court ofArches with its judge, could see and know everything; and if soseeing and so knowing they could act with clear honesty and perfectwisdom,--what would they do? They would declare of him that he wasnot a thief, only because he was so muddy-minded, so addle-pated asnot to know the difference between meum and tuum! There could be noother end to it, let all the lawyers and all the clergymen in Englandput their wits to it. Though he knew himself to be muddy-minded andaddle-pated, he could see that. And could any one say of such a manthat he was fit to be the acting clergyman of a parish,--to have afreehold possession in a parish as curer of men's souls! The bishopwas in the right of it, let him be ten times as mean a fellow as hewas.
And yet as he sat there on the gate, while the rain came down heavilyupon him, even when admitting the justice of the bishop, and thetruth of the verdict which the jury would no doubt give, and thepropriety of the action which that cold, reasonable, prosperous manat Silverbridge would take, he pitied himself with a tenderness ofcommiseration which knew no bounds. As for those belonging to him,his wife and children, his pity for them was of a different kind. Hewould have suffered any increase of suffering, could he by such agonyhave released them. Dearly as he loved them, he would have severedhimself from them, had it been possible. Terrible thoughts as totheir fate had come into his mind in the worst moments of hismoodiness,--thoughts which he had had sufficient strength andmanliness to put away from him with a strong hand, lest they shoulddrive him to crime indeed; and these had come from the great pitywhich he had felt for them. But the commiseration which he had feltfor himself had been different from this, and had mostly visited himat times when that other pity was for the moment in abeyance. Whatthough he had taken the cheque, and spent the money though it was nothis? He might be guilty before the law, but he was not guilty beforeGod. There had never been a thought of theft in his mind, or a desireto steal in his heart. He knew that well enough. No jury could makehim guilty of theft before God. And what though this mixture of guiltand innocence had come from madness,--from madness which these courtsmust recognize if they chose to find him innocent of the crime? Inspite of his aberrations of intellect, if there were any such, hisministrations in his parish were good. Had he not preached ferventlyand well,--preaching the true gospel? Had he not been very diligentamong his people, striving with all his might to lessen the ignoranceof the ignorant, and to gild with godliness the learning of theinstructed? Had he not been patient, enduring, instant, and in allthings amenable to the laws and regulations laid down by the Churchfor his guidance in his duties as a parish clergyman? Who could pointout in what he had been astray, or where he had gone amiss? But forthe work which he had done with so much zeal the Church which heserved had paid him so miserable a pittance that, though life andsoul had been kept together, the reason, or a fragment of the reason,had at moments escaped from his keeping in the scramble. Hence it wasthat this terrible calamity had fallen upon him! Who had been triedas he had been tried, and had gone through such fire with less lossof intellectual power than he had done? He was still a scholar,though no brother scholar ever came near him, and would makeGreek iambics as he walked along the lanes. His memory was storedwith poetry, though no book ever came to his hands, except thoseshorn and tattered volumes which lay upon his table. Old problemsin trigonometry were the pleasing relaxations of his mind, andcomplications of figures were a delight to him. There was not one ofthose prosperous clergymen around him, and who scorned him, whom hecould not have instructed in Hebrew. It was always a gratification tohim to remember that his old friend the dean was weak in his Hebrew.He, with these acquirements, with these fitnesses, had been thrustdown to the ground,--to the very granite,--and because in that harshheartless thrusting his intellect had for moments wavered as tocommon things, cleaving still to all its grander, nobler possessions,he was now to be rent in pieces and scattered to the winds, as beingaltogether vile, worthless, and worse than worthless. It was thusthat he thought of himself, pitying himself, as he sat upon the gate,while the rain fell ruthlessly on his shoulders.
He pitied himself with a commiseration that was sickly in spiteof its truth. It was the fault of the man that he was imbued toostrongly with self-consciousness. He could do a great thing or two.He could keep up his courage in positions which would wash allcourage out of most men. He could tell the truth though truth shouldruin him. He could sacrifice all that he had to duty. He could dojustice though the heaven should fall. But he could not forget to paya tribute to himself for the greatness of his own actions; nor, whenaccepting with an effort of meekness the small payment made by theworld to him, in return for his great works, could he forget thegreat payments made to others for small work. It was not sufficientfor him to remember that he knew Hebrew, but he must remember alsothat the dean did not.
Nevertheless, as he sat there under the rain, he made up his mindwith a clearness that certainly had in it nothing of that muddinessof mind of which he had often accused himself. Indeed, the intellectof this man was essentially clear. It was simply his memory thatwould play him tricks,--his memory as to things which at the momentwere not important to him. The fact that the dean had given him moneywas very important, and he remembered it well. But the amount of themoney, and its form, at a moment in which he had flattered himselfthat he might have strength to leave it unused, had not beenimportant to him. Now, he resolved that he would go to Dr. Tempest,and that he would tell Dr. Tempest that there was no occasion forany further inquiry. He would submit to the bishop, let the bishop'sdecision be what it might. Things were different since the day onwhich he had refused Mr. Thumble admission to his pulpit. At thattime people believed him to be innocent, and he so believed ofhimself. Now, people believed him to be guilty, and it could notbe right that a man held in such slight esteem should exercise thefunctions of a parish priest, let his own opinion of himself be whatit might. He would submit himself, and go anywhere,--to the galleysor the workhouse, if they wished it. As for his wife and children,they would, he said to himself, be better without him than with him.The world would never be so hard to a woman or to children as it hadbeen to him.
He was sitting saturated with rain,--saturated also withthinking,--and quite unobservant of anything around him, when hewas accosted by an old man from Hoggle End, with whom he was wellacquainted. "Thee be wat, Master Crawley," said the old man.
"Wet!" said Crawley, recalled suddenly back to the realities of life."Well,--yes. I am wet. That's because it's raining."
"Thee be teeming o' wat. Hadn't thee better go whome?"
"And are not you wet also?" said Mr. Crawley, looking at the old man,who had been at work in the brickfield, and who was
soaked with mire,and from whom there seemed to come a steam of muddy mist.
"Is it me, yer reverence? I'm wat in course. The loikes of us isalways wat,--that is barring the insides of us. It comes to usnatural to have the rheumatics. How is one of us to help hisselfagainst having on 'em? But there ain't no call for the loikes of youto have the rheumatics."
"My friend," said Crawley, who was now standing on the road,--andas he spoke he put out his arm and took the brickmaker by the hand,"there is a worse complaint than rheumatism,--there is, indeed."
"There's what they calls the collerer," said Giles Hoggett, lookingup into Mr. Crawley's face. "That ain't a got a hold of yer?"
"Ay, and worse than the cholera. A man is killed all over when he isstruck in his pride;--and yet he lives."
"Maybe that's bad enough too," said Giles, with his hand still heldby the other.
"It is bad enough," said Mr. Crawley, striking his breast with hisleft hand. "It is bad enough."
"Tell 'ee what, Master Crawley;--and yer reverence mustn't think asI means to be preaching; there ain't nowt a man can't bear if he'llonly be dogged. You go whome, Master Crawley, and think o' that,and maybe it'll do ye a good yet. It's dogged as does it. It ain'tthinking about it." Then Giles Hoggett withdrew his hand from theclergyman's, and walked away towards his home at Hoggle End. Mr.Crawley also turned homewards, and as he made his way through thelanes, he repeated to himself Giles Hoggett's words. "It's dogged asdoes it. It's not thinking about it."
"It's dogged as does it."]
He did not say a word to his wife on that afternoon about Dr.Tempest; and she was so much taken up with his outward conditionwhen he returned, as almost to have forgotten the letter. He allowedhimself, but barely allowed himself, to be made dry, and then forthe remainder of the day applied himself to learn the lesson whichHoggett had endeavoured to teach him. But the learning of it was noteasy, and hardly became more easy when he had worked the problem outin his own mind, and discovered that the brickmaker's doggednesssimply meant self-abnegation--that a man should force himself toendure anything that might be sent upon him, not only without outwardgrumbling, but also without grumbling inwardly.
Early on the next morning, he told his wife that he was going intoSilverbridge. "It is that letter,--the letter which I got yesterdaythat calls me," he said. And then he handed her the letter as towhich he had refused to speak to her on the preceding day.
"But this speaks of your going next Monday, Josiah," said Mrs.Crawley.
"I find it to be more suitable that I should go to-day," said he."Some duty I do owe in this matter, both to the bishop, and to Dr.Tempest, who, after a fashion, is, as regards my present business,the bishop's representative. But I do not perceive that I owe it as aduty to either to obey implicitly their injunctions, and I will notsubmit myself to the cross-questionings of the man Thumble. As I ampurposed at present I shall express my willingness to give up theparish."
"Give up the parish altogether?"
"Yes, altogether." As he spoke he clasped both his hands together,and having held them for a moment on high, allowed them to fall thusclasped before him. "I cannot give it up in part; I cannot abandonthe duties and reserve the honorarium. Nor would I if I could."
"I did not mean that, Josiah. But pray think of it before you speak."
"I have thought of it, and I will think of it. Farewell, my dear."Then he came up to her and kissed her, and started on his journey onfoot to Silverbridge.
It was about noon when he reached Silverbridge, and he was told thatDoctor Tempest was at home. The servant asked him for a card. "I haveno card," said Mr. Crawley, "but I will write my name for your behoofif your master's hospitality will allow me paper and pencil." Thename was written, and as Crawley waited in the drawing-room he spenthis time in hating Dr. Tempest because the door had been opened bya man-servant dressed in black. Had the man been in livery he wouldhave hated Dr. Tempest all the same. And he would have hated him alittle had the door been opened even by a smart maid.
"Your letter came to hand yesterday morning, Dr. Tempest," said Mr.Crawley, still standing, though the doctor had pointed to a chair forhim after shaking hands with him; "and having given yesterday to theconsideration of it, with what judgment I have been able to exercise,I have felt it to be incumbent upon me to wait upon you withoutfurther delay, as by doing so I may perhaps assist your views andsave labour to those gentlemen who are joined with you in thiscommission of which you have spoken. To some of them it may possiblybe troublesome that they should be brought together here on nextMonday."
Dr. Tempest had been looking at him during this speech, and couldsee by his shoes and trowsers that he had walked from Hogglestock toSilverbridge. "Mr. Crawley, will you not sit down?" said he, and thenhe rang his bell. Mr. Crawley sat down, not on the chair indicated,but on one further removed and at the other side of the table. Whenthe servant came,--the objectionable butler in black clothes thatwere so much smarter than Mr. Crawley's own,--his master's orderswere communicated without any audible word, and the man returned witha decanter and wine-glasses.
"After your walk, Mr. Crawley," said Dr. Tempest, getting up from hisseat to pour out the wine.
"None, I thank you."
"Pray let me persuade you. I know the length of the miles so well."
"I will take none, if you please, sir," said Mr. Crawley.
"Now, Mr. Crawley," said Dr. Tempest, "do let me speak to you as afriend. You have walked eight miles, and are going to talk to me on asubject which is of vital importance to yourself. I won't discuss itunless you'll take a glass of wine and a biscuit."
"Dr. Tempest!"
"I'm quite in earnest. I won't. If you do as I ask you, you shalltalk to me till dinner-time, if you like it. There. Now you maybegin."
Mr. Crawley did eat the biscuit and did drink the wine, and as he didso, he acknowledged to himself that Dr. Tempest was right. He feltthat the wine made him stronger to speak. "I hardly know why you havepreferred to-day to next Monday," said Dr. Tempest; "but if anythingcan be done by your presence here to-day, your time shall not bethrown away."
"I have preferred to-day to Monday," said Crawley, "partly because Iwould sooner talk to one man than to five."
"There is something in that, certainly," said Dr. Tempest.
"And as I have made up my mind as to the course of action which itis my duty to take in the matter to which your letter of the 9th ofthis month refers, there can be no reason why I should postpone thedeclaration of my purpose. Dr. Tempest, I have determined to resignmy preferment at Hogglestock, and shall write to-day to the Dean ofBarchester, who is the patron, acquainting him of my purpose."
"You mean in the event--in the event--"
"I mean, sir, to do this without reference to any event that isfuture. The bishop, Dr. Tempest, when I shall have been proved to bea thief, shall have no trouble either in causing my suspension ormy deprivation. The name and fame of a parish clergyman should beunstained. Mine have become foul with infamy. I will not wait to bedeprived by any court, by any bishop, or by any commission. I willbow my head to that public opinion which has reached me, and I willdeprive myself."
He had got up from his chair, and was standing as he pronounced thefinal sentence against himself. Dr. Tempest still remained seated inhis chair, looking at him, and for a few moments there was silence."You must not do that, Mr. Crawley," Dr. Tempest said at last.
"But I shall do it."
"Then the dean must not take your resignation. Speaking to youfrankly, I tell you that there is no prevailing opinion as to theverdict which the jury may give."
"My decision has nothing to do with the jury's verdict. Mydecision--"
"Stop a moment, Mr. Crawley. It is possible that you might say thatwhich should not be said."
"There is nothing to be said,--nothing which I could say, whichI would not say at the town cross if it were possible. As to thismoney, I do not know whether I stole it or whether I did not."
"That is just what I
have thought."
"It is so."
"Then you did not steal it. There can be no doubt about that."
"Thank you, Dr. Tempest. I thank you heartily for saying so much.But, sir, you are not the jury. Nor, if you were, could you whitewashme from the infamy which has been cast on me. Against the opinionexpressed at the beginning of these proceedings by the bishop ofthe diocese,--or rather against that expressed by his wife,--I didventure to make a stand. Neither the opinion which came from thepalace, nor the vehicle by which it was expressed, commanded myrespect. Since that, others have spoken to whom I feel myself boundto yield;--yourself not the least among them, Dr. Tempest;--and tothem I shall yield. You may tell the Bishop of Barchester that Ishall at once resign the perpetual curacy of Hogglestock into thehands of the Dean of Barchester, by whom I was appointed."
"No, Mr. Crawley; I shall not do that. I cannot control you, butthinking you to be wrong, I shall not make that communication to thebishop."
"Then I shall do so myself."
"And your wife, Mr. Crawley, and your children?"
At that moment Mr. Crawley called to mind the advice of his friendGiles Hoggett. "It's dogged as does it." He certainly wantedsomething very strong to sustain him in his difficulty. He found thatthis reference to his wife and children required him to be dogged ina very marked manner. "I can only trust that the wind may be temperedto them," he said. "They will, indeed, be shorn lambs."
Dr. Tempest got up from his chair, and took a couple of turns aboutthe room before he spoke again. "Man," he said, addressing Mr.Crawley with all his energy, "if you do this thing, you will thenat least be very wicked. If the jury find a verdict in your favouryou are safe, and the chances are that the verdict will be in yourfavour."
"I care nothing now for the verdict," said Mr. Crawley.
"And you will turn your wife into the poorhouse for an idea!"
"It's dogged as does it," said Mr. Crawley to himself. "I havethought of that," he said aloud. "That my wife is dear to me, andthat my children are dear, I will not deny. She was softly nurtured,Dr. Tempest, and came from a house in which want was never known.Since she has shared my board she has had some experience of thatnature. That I should have brought her to all this is very terribleto me,--so terrible, that I often wonder how it is that I live. But,sir, you will agree with me, that my duty as a clergyman is aboveeverything. I do not dare, even for their sake, to remain in theparish. Good morning, Dr. Tempest." Dr. Tempest, finding that hecould not prevail with him, bade him adieu, feeling that any serviceto the Crawleys within his power might be best done by intercessionwith the bishop and with the dean.
Then Mr. Crawley walked back to Hogglestock, repeating to himselfGiles Hoggett's words, "It's dogged as does it."
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